


the dirt

by tigrrmilk



Category: Spider-Gwen (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-06
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2018-03-21 14:55:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3696518
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tigrrmilk/pseuds/tigrrmilk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Well,” Gwen says. “I’d say thank you, but heroes aren’t supposed to be dishonest.”<br/>“And I’ll say that I wish you well,” Matt says, “because everyone expects lawyers to lie.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	the dirt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dragonbat](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonbat/gifts).



> i don't think there's anything i need to warn for in this. there are some brief references to canon instances of police brutality. and some spoilers for spider-gwen issues 1-3. 
> 
> should be mostly canon-compliant up to that point, although i've extrapolated and given foggy & matt a backstory that we haven't seen in the comics.

 

 

 

 

“How much do I owe you?” Matt asks, searching in his pockets for change with one hand, and taking the plastic bag full of boxes of noodles and dumplings in the other.

“Matt,” Foggy says, wheezing. He rests his forehead briefly on the doorframe. “You know it’s me. Let’s talk.”

“I know it’s you,” Matt agrees. “I want to know how much I owe you.”

Foggy waves a hand, and then grimaces and says, “it’s on me.”

“Hmm,” Matt says, and walks towards the kitchen. “You get plates,” he says. “I’ll make the tea.”

 

***

 

“I could never work out how to eat these things,” Foggy says, and wipes his mouth and chin on his hand, then looks at it, and looks around for something to wipe _that_ on. It was the last soup dumpling, and he’s already in mourning. They’re _delicious_. Matt smiles and picks up a pork bun daintily with his chopsticks, and waves it in the air. It doesn’t slip. If Foggy did that, it’d end up hitting the floor or window.

“It’s about balance,” he says. He takes a bite and chews, slowly. He doesn’t say anything else. It’s unnerving. Foggy can feel that he’s waiting for him to speak.

“Do you remember,” he says, finally, “when we were in law school? Always talking about opening our own practice?”

Matt snorts. “Yeah, but then you decided you’d rather be a public defender.”

“No, _you_ decided you wanted to be a public defender. I just wanted to work with you.”

“Well,” Matt says. “I still work with criminals. They pay better these days.” He pauses to offer Foggy the last pork bun, and then eats it himself when Foggy says no. “Is that why you’re here? Last I heard, there wasn’t anything different about our guys, except mine’s in prison and yours is trying to put everyone he’s ever _met_ in there.”

“Who are you calling my guy,” Foggy says. He’s eating the rice with a spoon. It’s cold in his mouth.

“Castle,” Matt says, with a grim smile. “Come on Foggy. You think I don’t know how dirty his hands are? He’s beating up way more people these days.”

“He’s not my guy,” Foggy says, pointlessly.

“Yeah, sure,” Matt says, and rubs at his chin. “I got my own practice,” he says, as if Foggy needs reminding. “You know you’re always welcome.” Foggy’s been to his office a few times. The lights are way too bright, and the carpets are yellow. Matt’s secretary straps knives to her thighs and doesn’t bother hiding them (she was cleaning them last time he was there), and Foggy’s pretty sure the DA’s office tried to shut down the last company she worked for for tax fraud. At least, he thinks that’s why he recognises her.

His office is just at the point where Hell’s Kitchen meets the Upper West Side, but no matter which direction he’s coming from: it never makes Foggy feel safe.

Not that much does, these days. Matt’s apartment is a few blocks north of his office, and it’s always clean and it’s pretty spare. Foggy likes it. He’s stayed over a few times. There’s a nice coffee shop over the road, and the bodega next door sells breakfast bagels with eggs and cheese. He's been here for dinner often enough that he recognised the delivery guy who was being buzzed in just as he got there. But safe? Maybe he would have felt that way once. Comfortable and safe aren't the same thing.

“Yeah,” Foggy says, sourly, “I know how dirty your hands are, too.”

Matt doesn’t really shrug, but he tilts his head and briefly bites at his upper lip.

Foggy runs a hand over his face. He thinks about what Castle had told him over drinks, before Foggy had begged off for the night and Frank had said that he was going back to _work_. He thinks, dumbly, about this stupid personality test he’d had to take when he was applying for his job at the DA’s office. It had said -- and it was about his personality, not about -- not about him as a lawyer -- _do you value justice higher than mercy?_

Foggy still can’t work it out, almost two years later. He scrapes the last of the rice from the carton, and says, “she’s just a kid, Matt.”

“I don’t know who you mean,” Matt says. He’s on his third cup of green tea. Foggy had refused even one cup. _What, you think I’ll be able to sleep tonight if I have that?_

When Castle had said, “she’s his kid,” he’d emphasised the _his_. Foggy’s seen her with Stacey. He’s seen her picture in Stacey’s wallet. She’s, what? College freshman? Sophomore, maybe? She’s in a band. Her boyfriend died when she was still in _high-school_.

But Foggy can’t tell Matt that she’s Stacey’s kid, not if she hasn’t already let him know that herself. Which, based on recent events, she might have. Foggy chews on the inside of his cheek, because all the food is gone now, and he stands up. “You heard me, Matt,” he says. “She’s a kid, and you don’t have to do it. You’re out here, and he’s not.”

Matt smiles again. It’s not right, Foggy thinks. It look wrong on his face, a smile like that. “You know and I know that that doesn’t mean anything, Foggy,” he says. “Remember Karen?”

Karen had been twenty, then, and Matt barely out of law school. “Yeah, I remember Karen,” Foggy says. “Saw her here last Christmas. She made us sing that _hymn_.”

“Not what I meant,” Matt says, but he doesn’t elaborate, because he doesn’t mean to. Foggy doesn’t ask, where is she, anyway, because he also doesn’t need to. He’s surprised it took as long as it did, and he doesn’t want to test how deep his sympathy goes.

“I got to get home,” Foggy says

“Yeah,” Matt says. “Turn the light out when you leave.”

 

***

 

It’s 4am, and Gwen can’t go home. After all that, she’s not sure she has a home. Maybe it’s time to start looking for an apartment. She briefly thinks about the dorms at Barnard, and then shakes her head. That would be even worse than living with her dad. At least he’s police. At least he’s got a -- gun.

Not that that works out great with most police, she thinks. When she was younger, she thought her Dad just didn’t see it. But now she’s sure he does and he just can’t do anything about it. She wants to say _there’s no such thing as a good cop_. She really -- she’s pretty sure that’s true. But what does that say about her, anyway? She just wants to help. Are vigilantes any better? But it's not like she can go straight. And she really -- she really does want to help. There'd be people who'd be dead if she didn't.

Is that how it always goes, though. Is that what the policemen think? The ones who are so scared of her that they shake while they hold her at gunpoint. The ones who would have been surprised to see her face -- that she's just a girl -- as if she ever tried to hide _that_. Do they think that they're doing something right? Finally, a clear decision. Finally, a bad guy that they can see and get to. Is that what they think every time they have someone. Is that the problem with corruption, or is just the problem with law enforcement. God, it's too late to be thinking about this. Or too early.

It’s a good thing it’s warm out. She’s still in her costume, without the mask. What’s the point. Everyone knows who she is, now. Or they will do soon. She might as well have her fighting gear on. It’s no good being caught unawares. She wonders how much webbing she’s got left. She wonders where she even is. She’s just been walking, waiting for someone to catch up. There aren’t that many people on the streets. She looks up now and then and sees a billboard with her face on it. No, not her face. That was the point, once.

It was wrong. She was wrong.

The sun will be up soon. Will it? She’s not sure what time it comes up in spring. She’s never usually up that early. Or outside that late.

She thought she’d maybe see some fights, something bad happening that she could solve with her webs and her quick reflexes and a stupid joke, but, nothing. She turns at the next corner and faces the roads, and she thinks, _where next?_

She wishes she had her backpack with her. She’s got her phone, but no paint. She thinks about using her webbing to get up on the roof of one of these buildings, and to get to -- wherever it is she’s going that way -- but, again. She doesn’t know when she’ll be able to get -- make -- more.

She sighs, and rubs at her chin, and looks up at the sign on the corner of the block. She thinks that she might as well go back to college, get into the lab early, and gather what she can. Nobody will be around until 9, so if anyone’s looking for her -- well. It’s a good time for it.

Plus, MJ totally worked the alumni fundraising campaign last year, and Gwen _knows_ that they can afford to rebuild if it comes to that.

 

***

 

She’s got her headphones in -- thank god she got those back, too -- and she’s got the new Waxahatchee album playing loud enough that she doesn’t hear the first time he says her name, so he has to tap her on the shoulder. She whirls around.

It’s still dark out -- the sun has started to rise, but it’s not there yet -- but he’s got sunglasses on, and -- he’s got a white cane. She expects him to ask her for directions, or for him to say something like, _I think I’ve ended up in the wrong place_ , but he doesn’t. “You’re Gwen,” he says. It’s not a question.

“Yes,” she says, wrong-footed. The guy’s younger than she took him for at first. Every moment, it’s getting lighter, and she can see him more clearly. He’s not big, but he seems -- wiry. Somewhere in his thirties.

“Spider-Woman,” he says, and this is it, this was what she was waiting for. She raises her arm to fend off an attack, but nothing comes. How does he -- how can he _know_? Is he wearing a disguise? She thinks, _run_ , but she hasn’t slept and she’s tired, and she wants -- she thinks, if this is it, I should hear what he’s going to say.

He sighs, and he says, “my girlfriend wanted me to get out of New York. I said, I’ve spent my whole life in this city, and she said that I was going to die here if I stayed.”

“Uh,” Gwen says.

“I’m Matthew Murdock,” he says, and he extends his hand. “I’m a lawyer. Represent petty criminals, mostly, but I also represent a man you might have heard of called Wilson Fisk.” He smiles, and it's -- it's scary. "I don't have a business card on me."

Gwen exhales, hard. “He’s trying to kill my dad,” she says. She doesn’t shake his hand, so he puts it down again. “I won’t let you do it.” She braces herself. She’s still in her costume. She thinks about that. _I’m ready_. She wishes she’d stopped at the Starbucks on the way to get a coffee because she’s dead on her feet, but she’s pretty sure the adrenaline will carry her through.

But -- she feels like this guy might be more of a threat than he seemed at first. The sun is almost up, now. He doesn’t look _weak_. He’s got a nice shirt and jacket on, but his sleeves are rolled up.

Matt nods, and says, “of course you won’t. You know, my girlfriend moved to San Francisco last month. Says it’s much nicer there. Not as much _happens_ , and you can get better Mexican food than you can in whatever bodega the bodega-bandit’s been harassing _here_ this week. If they’ll even sell _you_ anything, which from what I’ve heard, they won’t.”

“Well that all sounds very nice,” Gwen says. She pulls a hair-tie out of her pocket, and ties her hair into as much of a ponytail as it can manage. It’s pretty short. “But moving to California in the middle of a drought? Not _smart_ enough for me.”

“That’s what I said,” Matt says. He throws his cane into the air and catches it, with a smile on his face. “We think alike.”

“No,” she says.

“Yes,” he says. “You know, I hear your old man’s been taken off your case. Probably for the best. There are a lot of other cities between here and there. Some of them even have their own police force.”

“Is this a threat,” Gwen says. She balls up one of her fists, and readies the other one for webbing. “I’m great at threats. Love them.”

“No,” Matt says.

“What,” Gwen says, rolling her eyes, “you’re not going to say, ‘ _it’s a warning_ ’?”

“No,” Matt says. He sounds thoughtful. “It’s not advice either."  
  
“Then what is this?” Gwen asks, throwing her hands in the air. They’re both fists now. She realises that she never remembered to turn her music off, and she can hear it tinnily blasting out from the headphones that are still around her neck.

“An idea,” Matt says. “Something to think about.”

“Well,” she says. “I’d say thank you, but heroes aren’t supposed to be dishonest.”

“And I’ll say that I wish you well,” Matt says, “because everyone expects lawyers to lie.”

Gwen laughs, but it’s not funny. Is this what she has to look forward to, now. But at least -- at least she can feel the air on her face. At least the people who are trying to destroy her -- know that she’s a person. At least they can find her, and not have to go through everyone else.

That’s why she can’t go home. But she can’t just leave, either.

“You tell the _Kingpin_ ,” she says, “that if he wants to talk to me, he can come to me directly.”

“Wilson Fisk is in prison,” Matt says. He doesn’t say _he doesn’t answer to that name_ , but he enunciates _very_ clearly. “He’s interested in you, though. He likes to read the papers.”

“Yeah, well,” Gwen says. “Him and everyone else.”

“You’re what, twenty?” Matt says, and Gwen nods, and then says, “yes.”

He sighs and rubs the bridge of his nose underneath his glasses, pushing them slightly up above his eyes. His eyes are closed. Gwen is still -- she’s still on alert. She thinks, is this gesture a pose. Are they all poses. She still can’t -- what is this? Is he really telling her -- to leave? _Is_ this a warning?

“Goodbye, Gwen Stacey,” Matt says, with a half-smile and a lazy salute. “Think about it.”

“You already know what I’m going to decide,” Gwen says. “You know who I am. You know where I’ll be.”  
  
“Do I?” Matt asks. He’s already started to walk away.

“Yeah,” she says, raising her voice now. “Right here!” she looks down at her feet, and then back at the grotty lab building behind her. She doesn’t see Matt shaking his head, but she watches him until he walks to the end of the block, and then turns, and is gone. The sidewalk stinks, and she allows herself to think for a moment -- just a moment -- about what she would do if she left. But she won't, and she knows she won't. She goes into the lab and collects her things -- and makes as much webbing as she safely can before anyone else gets in -- and she thinks, _what next_.

 


End file.
